


Born of Dragonfire

by Nikolaivna



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: College of Winterhold - Freeform, F/M, Markarth, Skyrim - Freeform, main quest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2017-12-27 03:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikolaivna/pseuds/Nikolaivna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sorelle Canne is on her way to investigate the College of Winterhold when she's thrust unceremoniously into the center of world shattering events. Faced with an unfriendly new land and plagued by people and creatures that want her dead, Sorelle struggles to both solve the mysteries of Skyrim and keep her life from falling apart.</p><p>Loosely follows MQ, College of Winterhold, Markarth, and Dragonborn questlines (game spoilers). </p><p>The Elder Scrolls Series is owned by Bethesda; I take no credit for their hard work or excellently crafted lore that I'm leaning so heavily against to create this fan fiction. Rating follows game rating to be safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unbound

**Author's Note:**

> I've mirrored some game dialogue but it's not likely that I'll continue that pattern as the story continues on: it feels too stiff.

“Hurry up Breton, the gods won’t give us another chance!” a voice shouted.

 

Sorelle struggled to her feet. Her face and neck were smeared with blood from the previous execution. The acrid smell of brimstone was so thick it constricted her breath as she tried to shake herself out of shock. It seemed like a horrific dream and yet she realized how real the scene before her was as a great, black dragon flew overhead with a furious roar: the very ground beneath her feet trembled in fear. Embers pelted her from the sky, burning holes through the filthy sackcloth robe that she was dressed in and singeing her hair and skin. Sorelle’s vision finally focused on the man calling to her: the blonde Nord from the prisoner’s cart. He was shouting and motioning for her to take cover with him in one of the keep towers: she ran.

 

“Hurry!” he urged, slamming the door behind her.

 

“As if that would keep the beast at bay,” Sorelle thought, snorting at the fallacy. The snort earned her a derisive look from the tower’s scant occupants, which consisted of one Ulfric Stormcloak, a couple of dying Stormcloak soldiers, and her savior whom Ulfric just addressed as ‘Ralof’. All of which had been lined up to the execution block with her not moments before: none of them looked particularly criminal.

 

“... legends don’t burn down villages...” Ulfric was saying to Ralof when Sorelle turned her attention back to the two men.

 

The dragon roared again causing a storm of crumbling mortar to rain upon the refugees.

“We need to move now!” Ulfric shouted.

“Up through the tower, come on!” Ralof said turning to Sorelle.

Nodding, she took off up the stairs up the stairs as fast as possible, a soldier was attempting to clear a path. Sorelle ground to a halt abruptly and  Ralof collided into her as the wall of the tower imploded, the dragon screaming fire into the opening. As swiftly as he had inserted himself, the dragon was gone again, leaving a charred soldier and a gaping hole in his wake. The smell of burnt flesh assaulted her senses: Sorelle thought she might be ill but Ralof grabbed her arm and drug her to the edge of the hole before she had time to further process any of it.

“See that inn over there? Jump through the roof and keep going, for Talos sake don’t stop!”

Sorelle looked at Ralof like he had suddenly grown horns out of his head,

“Go!” he yelled, “We’ll follow when we can.”

“Fine!” Sorelle snapped and with a running start she took a wild leap out the side of the

building. She landed roughly on the second story of the inn, wrenching her leg in the process. Adrenaline had taken over her body though and pain was forgotten as she dropped through the charred boards to the first floor and ran for all she was worth.

Exiting the inn she came face to face with an Imperial soldier and the dragon. It was the soldier that had read off the names of those slated for execution at Helgen. For a brief moment Sorelle felt that perhaps, if the dragon decided to roast the man alive, justice might be well served. The coward had barely batted an eyelash when his captain told him to send her to the block despite the absence of her name on the execution list. The thought passed almost immediately as she witnessed him herding a child out of harms way,

“Hamming, you need to get over here!” the soldier shouted, guiding him from the dragon’s path and behind the smoldering remains of a house just in time, “That a boy. You’re doing great.”

The dragon burned everything left in it’s path, including the boy’s father who had stumbled over the cobblestones, Sorelle barely had time to duck to behind the house with them.

The dragon took to the air again and soldier noticed her presence, he looked weary: his eyes greatly pained,

“Still alive prisoner? Keep close to me if you want to stay that way. Gunnar, take care of the boy, I’m going to find General Tullius and join the defense.”

“Gods guide you Hadvar,” Gunnar responded before turning and running with Hamming.

Sorelle stumbled after Hadvar,

“Stick close to the wall,” he yelled, the dragon perched himself on the wall above her head not a moment later. Sorelle marveled at the strength in the black wing that inadvertently shielded her from the heat where she crouched, and then it was gone again.

“Let’s keep moving,” Hadvar urged as he began threading his way through the wreckage of the town. Imperial archers and mages were firing projectiles overhead as they made their way towards the keep.

“Ralof! You damn traitor!” Hadvar yelled over the chaos around them.

“We’re escaping this time Hadvar, and you’re not stopping us,” Ralof yelled back.

“Fine, I hope the dragon takes you all to Sovngarde.” Hadvar snapped, “With me prisoner! Let’s go!” he called over his shoulder to Sorelle.

Sorelle probably would have laughed if the situation wasn’t so dire, the exchange between the two men seemed almost childish; the two must have known each other long ago. She was beginning to feel fatigued, her legs felt heavy and her ankle throbbed in pain, the initial adrenaline rush she’d been running on began to fade.

“Hey! Pay attention, come with me!” Hadvar yelled.

Sorelle absently followed him into the keep.

 

“Do you think that was really a dragon, a harbinger of the end times?” Hadvar asked quietly, drawing a knife from his belt, “Here, let me get those ropes off,” he motioned for Sorelle to approach.

Sorelle held her hands out and he sliced through the ropes taking care not to add any injury. She rubbed at her raw wrists and flexed her fingers waiting for her blood to begin circulating once again.

“Well,” she said in a voice that cracked, her throat was parched, “I highly doubt he was a figment of our collective imaginations.”

Hadvar wrinkled his nose,

“I suppose you’re right there; come on, let’s look around for something useful, you won’t have much protection in those rags. Try to find some armor or a couple swords.”

“I guess some boots would be nice,” Sorelle said crossing the room. A row of beds with footlockers lined the wall, most of them were empty. She managed to dig up some armor that was far too large for her and a couple of swords. She hefted one of the swords and decided to go with the lighter, standard issue Imperial blade.

Sitting down on one of the beds she began to unwrap the cloth around her feet. Her ankle was badly swollen and a purple bruise was spreading up her leg. Carefully flexing the ankle, Sorelle checked to make sure nothing was outright broken before holding a hand over the leg and allowing the magika flowing through her veins to flare to life with a healing spell. It was never a wholly comfortable process but it was much preferred trying to limp through the keep and away from the dragon. When she was done she pulled on a set of ill fitting boots and light armor she’d found in one of the chests; she stood and met Hadvar’s gaze. He bore a wary expression as if she were a snake he fully expected to strike him should lose eye contact.

“What?” she asked hoarsely.

“You a mage?” he asked tentatively.

“I’ve picked up a few things over the years,” she replied carefully not entirely sure where this line of questioning was leading, “Why?” 

Hadvar was distracted by a noise down the hall before the conversation could continue,

“Give that sword a few swings, I think we’re about to run into company,” he whispered, disappearing around the corner.

Sorelle followed, trying to stay close to the wall and in the shadows. They paused outside a gate there was a heated debate going on,

“Stormcloaks,” Hadvar whispered his brow furrowing, “maybe we can try reasoning with them,” he suggested uncertainly as he moved slowly to unlatch the gate.

The gate made a scraping noise as Hadvar opened it, before he could speak the three Stormcloaks rushed him,

“Die you Imperial dogs!” the woman yelled swinging a great warhammer at Hadvar’s head.

Sorelle clumsily parried a blow from another Stormcloak while trying desperately to stay out of range of the other. The dance continued for a moment until the wind was ripped from her lungs as a blunt object connected squarely with her stomach, the blow sent her sliding across the floor in the opposite direction of her sword. Things seemed to be moving in slow motion: Hadvar was now heavily engaged with two of the soldiers while Sorelle was struggling to pull herself up only to come face to face with a burly man that planned to finish her off. Rolling to the side she summoned every last bit of her magika and ripped open a portal to Oblivion. A great spectral wolf lunged out of the portal and attached his maw to the throat of Sorelle’s attacker. It was a gruesome scene but it gave her enough time scramble around for her sword. The Stormcloak fell and the wolf fell upon those attacking Hadvar, finishing them off.

 

Sorelle sank to the ground as the conjured familiar padded silently to her side. Hadvar eyed her and the wolf warily for moment before deciding it was safe to sheath his sword once again.

“We should keep moving,” he said, edging towards the gate to the next passageway.

“Do you have something against mages Hadvar?” Sorelle asked, standing again with a groan: she was badly in need of a healing potion... or three.

“Not exactly... just... well magic isn’t trusted much in Skyrim, the prejudices run deep among our people,” he replied, swinging the gate open and peering into the passage, “Looks clear, lets go.”

Sorelle followed a short distance behind with the wolf still in tow, just as they reached the first door in the passage the ground quaked and the passage was filled with mortar and stone.

“Damn, that dragon doesn’t give up easy,” Hadvar cursed, the hall was completely collapsed in front of them, they’d have to travel deeper into the keep, “This way,” he directed, opening the only door available.

 

It was a storeroom, containing Stormcloaks. The conjured wolf leapt into the fray that erupted as did Hadvar, Sorelle hung back with her sword drawn choosing to wait for her opponent to come to her: she didn’t wait long. The soldier ran at her with his warhammer ready to smash the life out of her in one fell swing, Sorelle waited until the last possible second and then thrust her sword forward as hard as she could whilst turning to the side. The Stormcloak had been fully committed in his attack and had no time to react: he was impaled. Sorelle wrinkled her nose as she yanked her sword free once again. Hadvar was just delivering the finishing blows to the other two; the wolf had dissapated back to whichever plane of Oblivion it was that he resided on.

“See if you can find some potions in one of the barrels,” Hadvar called, “I’m going to check the hall to see if we can get any further this way; be quick!”

Sorelle rummaged around and found an old knapsack which she promptly began stuffing things that could be useful into. At the end of her foray she had few loaves of stale bread, a couple wedges of goat cheese, a container of salt, every herb that hung from the rafters, some dried meat rations, a bottle of alto wine, a few septims, and three small healing potions. She slung the pack over her shoulders and joined Hadvar in the hall.

“It looks clear so far,” he said, “no telling for how long though.”

Sorelle handed him one of the small vials containing the healing potions and cracked one open for herself, knocking it back with a grimace.

Sorelle nodded,

“Well, as you’re so fond of saying: we better keep moving,” she said.

  
  


It seemed like hours before they emerged from the bowels of Helgen’s keep into the blinding sunlight.

“Shhh..” Hadvar said crouching immediately down by a fir tree, as the dragon flew by overhead and then far off into the distance, “looks like he’s gone for good this time.”

Sorelle sat down heavily the weight of the past few days suddenly hit her like a boulder, she looked at Hadvar but without really looking at him. Images of the dragon roasting the little boy’s father were replaying across her vision, the smell of singed flesh wouldn’t leave her nostrils; she turned to the side and heaved.

“Hey, hey,” Hadvar was saying, as he patted her back awkwardly, “come on, I have family in Riverwood not far from here, they can help us out.”

“Just give me a minute,” she grumbled between heaves.

 

After a couple minutes Hadvar commented,

“We might want to split up actually, it’ll be safer that way. My uncle Alvor is the blacksmith in Riverwood, he’ll help you out when you get there. Just follow this path down the mountain and then north along the river, you’ll reach the village.”

Sorelle nodded,

“Thanks,” she said.

“Thank you my friend, I wouldn’t have made it out of here if it wasn’t for you. As far as I’m concerned you’ve more than earned your pardon but, I’d steer clear of any Imperial soldiers until General Tullius makes that official,” Hadvar said standing up and shaking the pine needles from his armor.

She watched him move down the path he had indicated until he was out of sight,

“Safer to split up?” Sorelle spat in disgust, “He could have just told the truth: it’s simpler not to have to explain why he’s in the company of an escaped convict wearing Imperial armor. Coward.”

She stripped off the filthy, blood soaked armor and pulled on a ragged robe that she’d found during their escape. It was old and musty but it reeked far less than the armor she’d been wearing the last few hours. Strapping on the sword again and shouldering her knapsack Sorelle started picking her way down the path barefooted, praying to the Divines that the smell of death and charred flesh would leave her nostrils.

It took awhile to reach the bottom of the mountain, mostly due to the fact that she had stopped to pick anything that looked like it could be used as an alchemical ingredient. At the base of the path she came to a clearing with three ornately carved stones arranged in a semi-circle. Normally she would be much more interested in examining the stones but exhaustion was beginning to fog her thoughts so she just plopped down and rested her back against the center stone. It suddenly occurred to her, as she stared into the nearby river rapids, that she hadn’t eaten for the last three days. A grim foreboding had settled across her as she descended the mountain: food, and possibly several strong drinks, seemed like the best way to deal with it. She pulled out the bread and cheese she’d salvaged from Helgen and forced as much of it down as she was able. Then, still feeling nauseated, she curled back up against the stones and fell asleep.


	2. Riverwood

The baying of a wolf woke Sorelle from her slumber. It was late: Masser and Secunda, the twin moons, had already risen high in the sky casting a red glow over all of Nirn. Sorelle blinked her eyes and stretched: and then the entire day’s events flooded back into her mind. She did her best to push away the images that flowed unbidden to her mind’s eye. Undoubtedly, the sights and smells of a burning Helgen would plague her for years to come but, to allow herself to become paralyzed by it was out of the question. She gathered up her pack and grabbed the stone behind her to steady herself as she stood. She staggered back in shock when a pale turquoise light bloomed across the stone and illuminating the carvings. The form of a man carrying a staff was etched into the stone, the light flowed through the lines of the carving like water through a sluice and emptied into a chamber at the top of the small monolith before shooting skyward and disappearing into the heavens.  

"Some sort of standing stone?" Sorelle wondered aloud, she shrugged, "I suppose I could use all the help I can get."

She tarried for a moment longer as the light slowly faded from the stone and then turned down the path to Riverwood. Periodically she summoned her familiar, partially for protection but mostly just for company; Skyrim seemed such a lonely place at night. The wolf silently padded along the path next to her, keeping a watchful eye out for trouble. A few fires were lit in the distance marking the edge of some sort of settlement, Sorelle was so focused on the light that she tripped unceremoniously over a large object in the road and fell face first onto the cobblestones with a heavy thud.

“UGH!” she groaned as she picked herself up and dusted off her hands on her robes, that would leave some marks. She turned to figure out what she had tripped over, in the moonlight she could make out the shape of a dog or a large wolf but it lay motionless despite the collision just moments before, suddenly it dawned on her,

“Oh you have got to be kidding me!” she exclaimed, “It's a corpse.” she said to her wolf, he only cocked his head in response and then dissipated in a crackle of blue energy. Sorelle threw up her hands in frustration before grabbing hold of the dead wolf and dragging it off the road so no one else would repeat her mistake. Then she turned again towards Riverwood, mumbling about irresponsible people, during which the name ‘Hadvar’ was mentioned a few times.

 

Riverwood was silent as Sorelle strode through the village, a warm glow came from the banked blacksmith’s forge. She walked on to the end of the settlement where a large building had a sign hanging out front: the Sleeping Giant Inn, Sorelle could make out the letters in the moonlight. It seemed like the best option, hopefully the price of a bed for the night wasn’t too expensive. She pushed open the door and was greeted by a large, warmly lit common room. A large burly man leaned on the counter behind the bar at the end of the room, he was in conversation with a blonde woman,

“Yep, ale’s gone bad,” he said.

“Hmph. Guess you don’t have potatoes in your ears after all. Just make sure we get a fresh batch soon,” the woman said crossing her arms and turning towards Sorelle. The man had also noticed her entrance,

“Name’s Orgnar, can I get you something? If you need a room talk to Delphine,” he said gesturing with his head towards the blonde woman.

“Actually, I’d like room and fare if that’s possible,” Sorelle said, she felt a little sheepish under Delphine’s harsh gaze.

“It’s ten gold for the night,” Delphine said skeptically, her eyes roving Sorelle from head to toe. Sorelle’s cheeks burned, but she squared her shoulders and reached into her pack to count out ten septims. She might look like a beggar that had rolled in blood and dirt but at least she was alive.

Delphine took the coins with a raised eyebrow but only gestured across the room,

“That’ll be your room for the night, go ahead and get yourself something to eat,” she said.

“What’ll it be?” Orgnar asked.

“What have you got?” Sorelle asked settling on to one of the stools.

“Drink for the thirsty and food for the hungry,” he replied with a joking tone, “Mead, ale... well no... not ale right now nevermind, but we have wine, I think we even have a couple bottles of Argonian Bloodwine hanging around the cellar if that’s your fancy. We also have some apple cabbage stew in the pot that I just made this evening...” he trailed off.

Sorelle’s stomach growled loudly,

“Stew sounds great,” she said blushing, “and a bottle of wine.”

Orgnar nodded,

“Fifteen gold,” he said before turning around to fetch a bowl of stew and the wine.

Sorelle counted out fifteen septims and placed them on the counter.

“So, I don’t think I’ve seen your face around here before,” Delphine said taking his place behind the counter, pretending to tidy things up.

“Haven’t been here before,” Sorelle said carefully.

“Planning to stay long?” Delphine asked.

“No, just passing through, why?” Sorelle asked looking Delphine in the eye, thinking the woman was too curious for her own good.

“I’m the innkeeper, it’s my job to keep track of strangers,” she replied steadily, “where are you headed to after this?” she asked in a more conversational tone, Orgnar had just returned with the food and drink.

“I’m not sure, I had heard there was someplace in Skyrim that I could study, a college...”

“You lookin’ to blow yourself up?” Orgnar cut in with obvious disgust in his voice as he set the food in front of her,

“No one trusts those mages way up north in their college, who knows what they get up to,” Delphine spat before walking away.

“You need anything else?” Orgnar asked.

“No this is fine,” Sorelle said, nudging the small pile of septims in his direction, Orgnar scooped them up and placed them in the inn strongbox.

“Well, you have a good night then lass: what’s left of it.” he said.

Sorelle nodded and then dug into the bowl of stew, it wasn’t the best recipe she’d ever tasted but it was hot and better than starving for days again. She finished it quickly and uncorked the bottle of wine, and poured some it into a mug, the rest she stuffed into her pack for later. She swung her legs around so she could lean against the counter and face the warmth of the fire. Gazing into the flames she suddenly realized that the old cozy, comforting feelings she’d always had when sitting around a fire was now replaced by an uneasiness. It was silly she told herself, campfires and fire pits had nothing to do with dragons, there was absolutely no reason to feel uncomfortable.  Still the feeling persisted until finally she downed the remainder of her mug, stacked the dishes neatly on the counter, and just went to bed.

 

Sorelle woke mid-morning with a throbbing headache to the sound of a bard banging on a drum, which made her wonder if the Divines had something against her personally. She scrubbed a hand across her forehead before noticing how filthy she was. No one had said anything about a bath the evening before though and Sorelle wasn’t particularly keen on asking either Delphine or Orgnar about anything this morning. Orgnar she could understand, he reacted the same way that Hadvar had to her using a bit of restoration, but Delphine... Sorelle was pretty sure that Delphine was Breton through and through. Shaking her head in resignation, Sorelle stood and stretched, trying in vain to work the kinks out of her muscles. The Helgen ordeal left her feeling very sore, and tired. She grabbed her pack and went out to the common room taking a seat at the bar again,

“Here,” Orgnar said, setting a steaming mug of tea in front of her and a small plate of bread, cheese, and apple slices, “it’s on the house.”

“Oh,” Sorelle said in surprise, and sniffed daintily at the tea before taking a sip.

“I hear a dragon attacked Helgen... sounds like hogwash to me...” Orgnar trailed off meaningfully. He was fishing,

“It does sound crazy,” Sorelle said quietly.

“Hmm...” Orgnar replied and busied himself with cleaning things.

The tea was slowing beginning to ease the pounding in her head which was more than could be said for the bard’s drum.

“This tea is nice, what is it?” Sorelle asked Orgnar.

“Secret recipe,” he replied, “but wheat and blisterwort will make a healing potion if you didn’t know that,” he offered before yelling across the room, “Sven, why don’t you take a break?”

“Sure, I could use one,” the bard said amicably.

“Would you mind if I used the alchemy workbench before I leave?” Sorelle asked.

“Nope, as long as you clean up after yourself,” Orgnar said before disappearing to what Sorelle assumed must be the storeroom.  She finished up her breakfast and then settled at the workbench to blend some of the ingredients she’d found into potions and a few poisons. If nothing else she hoped she’d be able to sell them for a few septims. When she was finished she packed everything carefully into her pack and then, nodding cordially to the Sven, the bard, she left the Sleeping Giant.

 

Hadvar had mentioned his uncle Alvor was the village smith. Sorelle wasn’t keen on running to Alvor for the help that Hadvar had extended on his behalf but, she did have a couple daggers in her pack that she might be able to sell him so she strolled down the path towards the forge.

“Hello!” Sorelle called to a man fanning the forge, “Are you Alvor?” she asked.

“Aye, what can I do for you?” he asked wiping his hands on his heavy, black apron.

“I’m a friend of Hadvar’s,” Sorelle said, almost immediately regretting the statement as Alvor’s expression changed rapidly, “I was hoping we might do some business,” she finished.

“I see,” Alvor said, walking down the steps of the smithy, “why don’t you come inside for a minute, Hadvar mentioned you might stop by.”

Sorelle cringed, she hoped Hadvar hadn’t said that she would be here to solicit help: she hated having to ask for help from anyone. She followed him apprehensively into his home however, the man clearly wanted to speak privately.

“Can we offer you anything to eat?,” Alvor asked once they were inside, “Sigrid! We have a guest!” he called.

“No, thank you, I’ve just eaten,” Sorelle replied, gazing about the room. It was a cozy little house, there were two beds and a set of drawers on one side of the room, opposite that a kitchen and dining area were set up. Alvor gestured for her to take a seat at the table as a pretty brunette woman came up the stairs from the cellar.

“This is the friend Hadvar told us about, the one that saved his life,” he told the woman.

“Oh!” Sigrid said, looking Sorelle over in surprise, “We are in your debt,” she said.

“Not at all,” Sorelle said waving her off, “he saved me just as much as I saved him.”

Sorelle saw a small flash of relief flit across the woman’s face for a moment,

“Can I make you something to eat?” Sigrid asked politely.

“No, thank you, I was just telling Alvor I’ve already eaten,” Sorelle said again, “I was just hoping to do some business, I have a few items that I wish to be rid of.”

“Of course, of course,” Alvor said, jovially, “show me what you have. Sigrid, do you think you could find some fresh clothes for the lass? Perhaps fill the wash basin as well? I admit, I was surprised when you showed up like... well this. Hadvar had told us to watch for a small Breton girl in Imperial armor.”

“I couldn’t deal with wearing that any longer...not after...” Sorelle trailed off, she really didn’t to relive the experience.

“I understand, Hadvar related the whole horrible affair to us yesterday. He left to report into the Legion in Solitude early this morning. We can provide you with anything you might need friend, within reason of course. We’re happy to help, but we would ask that you do us a favor,” Alvor said as Sorelle laid out various daggers, gauntlets, and other small weapons on the table. Sorelle paused and looked up,

“What do you need?” she asked warily.

“The Jarl of Whiterun needs to know about the dragon attack, we’re defenseless out here. If you would carry news of the attack to Jarl Balgruuf and convince him to send soldiers to defend the village then I will be in your debt,” he said seriously. For a moment Sorelle hesitated but then she remembered Helgen: the families and their homes burning, the small boy and his father, allowing such a disaster to happen in Riverwood would be unforgivable.

“Alright, just tell me how to get to Whiterun from here and I’ll go today,” she said.

“Cross the river and head north, just follow the road, you’ll see it just past the falls. The Jarl lives in the palace atop the hill: Dragonsreach,” Alvor said turning over the various weapons presented to him.

“The lady’s bath is ready,” a small voice said from the stairs, Sorelle turned to see a little brown haired girl in a red dress.

“Alright Dorthe, take her down to get cleaned up then,” Alvor said, then to Sorelle, “When you’re done, come find me at the forge, I’ll have the gold for your wares.”

Sorelle nodded in agreement and followed Dorthe down the steps to the cellar.

“Did you really see a dragon!?” she asked excitedly.

Sorelle looked at her with a sympathetic smile, she really didn’t know what she was             excited about, to the girl dragons were still mythical creatures from a storybook,

“Yes,” Sorelle said solemnly.

“Wow!” Dorthe exclaimed!

“Dorthe, stop pestering Hadvar’s friend, she needs to get cleaned up. Go play outside” Sigrid chided the girl.

“Aww... okay,” Dorthe said and ran off to play.

“I’m sorry,” Sigrid said, leading Sorelle around the corner to a tub of water that had been filled, “she can be a little excitable at times. And, I’m sorry but I don’t even know your name, Hadvar gave us your description but that’s it, the poor boy was so frazzled by the whole situation.”

“Oh. My name is Sorelle Canne,”

  
  


Sorelle plaited her still-damp hair into a long braid that hung over her shoulder like a black snake before pulling on the belted tunic and soft boots that Sigrid had left by the washtub for her and buckling her sword on once again. The water left in the tub was black with soot, dirt, and a fair amount of blood, Sorelle had scrubbed her skin until it was almost raw in an attempt to wash all of Helgen away. Her skin bore several wounds that she hadn’t healed in time: they would probably scar. Her hair had been badly singed in several places making it look like a wild, shaggy mane; burn marks were scattered across her arms and shoulders, Sorelle shuddered when she saw them. It served to bring home once again just how close she and Hadvar had been to being roasted alive.

She made her way upstairs and out to the smithy.

“Well you’re looking much better,” Alvor said as he reached into his pocket and held out a coin purse, “here’s the payment for the items you brought, your knapsack is just there on the workbench. Sigrid packed you a bit of food for the road,” he said nodding to the bench.

“Uh... thank you, I’ll head up to Whiterun then,” Sorelle said shouldering the pack.

“Make haste,” Alvor urged, “Eight be with you.”

Sorelle turned on her heel and started heading up the north path, she ran into Sigrid just in front of the Sleeping Giant Inn,

“Well!” Sigrid said giving her an appraising look, “You’re pretty now that you’re all cleaned up, I’ll give you that, just stay away from my husband Alvor.”

Sorelle was sure she’d turned every shade of red possible in that moment,

“What? I’m not even...”

Sigrid winked at her and laughed jovially,

“Safe travels friend, you’re always welcome her in Riverwood,” she said with a smile.

Sorelle breathed a sigh of relief, and smiled before setting out again, Nord humor was going to take a bit of getting used to. She stopped on the bridge to look back over the sleepy little village, the children ran darted between the buildings laughing merrily. She set out for Whiterun at a brisk jog, the sooner she warned the Jarl the safer they would be and the sooner she try to build some semblance of a normal life again.


	3. Before the Storm

“Halt! The city is closed to visitors,” one of the guards called out when Sorelle approached the gates of Whiterun.

“I’m here on official business; I have news from Helgen,” Sorelle said firmly.

The guard hesitated for a moment but relented,

“Fine but we’ve got our eyes on you. Stay out of trouble,” he said as he unlocked the gate and allowed her to pass through.

 

Whiterun seemed a pleasant city, the buildings were of nordic design: bright and cheerful in comparison to Helgen. Sorelle found the ornate carvings that decorated the buildings very appealing. It was late afternoon and the marketplace was bustling with people; the vendors were advertising their wares with enthusiasm.

Dragonsreach towered over the city at the top of the hill. Sorelle wound her way through people and up the stairs, passing through a park with a large dead tree as it’s focal point and a priest of Talos that made the term overzealous seem like a sore understatement. Sorelle ignored his raving, and mounted the steps to the palace. The guards stationed at the entrance of the castle only nodded to her as she pushed open the doors and entered.

Dragonsreach was vast: the entryway was a wide set of stairs leading to an open dining area with a large fire pit burning brightly at it’s center. The vaulted ceilings made the space feel exceptionally grand: the large arched beams placed at regular intervals were carved with ornate nordic designs. High above, at the apex of the room, hung a series of great wrought iron chandeliers that lit the dark recesses; Sorelle didn’t envy the person in charge of changing and lighting the candles. Beyond the dining area was a dais on which the Jarl was currently seated upon his throne, involved in deep discussion with his courtiers. Sorelle approached hesitantly, she wasn’t entirely sure of the proper etiquette or protocols to follow when approaching or addressing a ruler in Skyrim. In fact there were quite a few things she wasn’t entirely sure of prior to Helgen, some events in her life seemed to be growing increasingly hazy. She was fairly certain that she hadn’t committed any crime but she wasn’t entirely sure how she had ended up on that cart with the Stormcloaks or indeed where exactly she had been before that. 

Sorelle’s errant train of thought was interrupted suddenly as a Dunmer woman approached her, drawing her sword,

“What is the meaning of this interruption!? The Jarl is not receiving visitors,” she said sternly.

“Riverwood calls for the Jarl’s aid,” Sorelle felt a bit startled but responded clearly.

“Give me the message, I will relay it,” the woman demanded.

“It’s the dragon attack,” Sorelle began, “I was at Helgen when it struck...”

“You have news of Helgen?” the woman interjected in disbelief, “the Jarl will want to talk to you personally: approach the dais.”

Jarl Balgruuf had apparently overheard much of the interchange, he was already studying Sorelle with a pensive expression,

“So, you were at Helgen. You saw this dragon with your own eyes?” Balgruuf asked.

“Yes, it razed the town entirely and then flew off in this direction. That was more than a day ago now,” Sorelle replied.

“Well, what do you say now Proventus, shall we continue to trust in the strength of our own walls? Against a dragon?”

“My lord we should send troops to Riverwood at once, it’s in the most immediate danger...” the Dunmer woman said with conviction.

“No, we can’t do that, the Jarl of Falkreath might view it as a provocation...” Proventus countered.

Sorelle no longer heard the conversation though, her eyes fixed upon a large skull mounted on the wall behind the dais. A chill of apprehension ran down her spine, a skull like that could only belong to one creature: a dragon.

“Enough! Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once. I’ll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people!” the Jarl raised his voice.

“Yes, my Jarl” the dunmer woman, Irileth, responded and left immediately to make the arrangements.

“I’ll return to my duties then,” Proventus said with an air of injured pride.

“That would be best,” Balgruuf said, then he turned to Sorelle, “Well done. You sought me out on your own initiative. You’ve done Whiterun a great service and I won’t forget it. Here, take this armor, it’s from my personal armory,” he said pulling a set of polished steel armor from a nearby chest and handing it to Sorelle.

“Thank you,” Sorelle said, a little confused and unsure what to do in this situation, she’d never worn heavy armor in her life, but refusing a gift would probably be a grievous error.

“There is something else you could do for me,” Balgruuf continued, “suitable for someone of your particular talents, perhaps.”

Sorelle wasn’t entirely sure what talents the man was currently ascribing to her person but she was fairly certain that he was grossly overestimating them.

“Come, let’s go speak with my court wizard, Farengar, he’s been looking into this dragon issue for me,” the Jarl said rising from his throne and leading her to a room just off of the large common room.

A man in blue hooded robes was standing over a runed table used for enchanting with his back to them when they entered. The room was clearly a mage’s lab, there was a large desk with papers and lavender soul gems scattered across it. The aforementioned enchanting table stood at the back of the room with an alchemy workbench next to it. Various documents and maps were tacked to a board all bearing marks and scribbles. Sorelle could just barely see into one of the adjoining rooms, it seemed to be a small, unkempt library judging by the haphazard way books were crammed on to the visible shelves.

“Farengar! I’ve brought you a present, someone to assist you with your dragon project. I think you’ll find her more than capable,” the Jarl announced and then promptly turned to leave, “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.”

The man had turned around at the Jarl’s voice, looking aggravated that he had been disturbed,

“So, the Jarl thinks you can be of some use to me,” Farengar said striding across the room, his expression appraising, “I do have a couple errands that need to be run if you think you’re up to the task,” he paused for effect, “I’ve learned of a certain stone that is said to be interred within Bleak Falls Barrow, no doubt in the main chamber, I need someone to go fetch it.”

Sorelle fidgeted thoughtfully with her braid,

“What exactly does this stone have to do with the dragons?” she asked.

“Ah! Not just a mindless brute but a scholar with a questioning mind? This is a surprise!” Farengar said condescendingly, it was clear he thought highly of his own reasoning skills, to the point of discounting others, “The stone is said to be a map that marks the burial locations of the ancient beasts, the Dragonstone it’s called,” he continued.

“Can you tell me more about Bleak Falls Barrow? What can I expect?” Sorelle asked, prying information out of this man seemed nearly impossible.

“It’s your typical ancient nord burial site, I’m sure you’ll encounter draugr or at least bandits but I’m sure it’s not beyond your capability to handle,” he said with a sarcastic smirk, “but maybe you just wanted to know where it is located? For that you can ask the folks of Riverwood, they’ll point you in the right direction.”

Sorelle frowned, the man didn’t expect her to live through the mission, that was obvious. She decided to change the subject,

“Do you have an apprentice?” she asked, “Or, are their any other wizards in Whiterun?”

Farengar shook his head,

“Oh no, I’m no good at teaching. There aren’t any other wizards here although there is an alchemist, a priest, and a priestess that reside in the city if you want to count them,” he sniffed, “Which reminds me of the second errand I had for you,” he opened his desk drawer and pulled out a small vial containing frost salts, “Could you deliver these frost salts to Arcadia, she requested some from me weeks ago but I just haven’t had time,” he said handing the vial to Sorelle.

“Sure,” Sorelle said, taking the salts and slipping them into the pouch on her belt.

“Good, you’re much more suited to these menial tasks that I am,” Farengar said as he turned, waving her off.

“Wait,” Sorelle said, feeling very annoyed, “before I go, do you have any spell tomes in stock?”

“Ah. A mage then? I have a few things, come take a look,” he motioned, to her to follow him to what she had assumed was his library, “You know, if you’ve got the aptitude... you might try to get into the College of Winterhold,” he suggested as Sorelle mulled over the selection before deciding on a tome of Bound Sword and one of Candlelight,

“Is that the college way up north? Where no one knows what the mages get up to?” she asked presenting the tomes to him for approval, Farengar smirked at her comment,

“Yes, the very same; I see you’ve noticed that the work of the mind is sorely undervalued here in Skyrim. I can give you those for one hundred and fifty gold,” he said.

Sorelle raised a brow, the two tomes were novice tomes, they were hardly worth half that price, but she looked Farengar squarely in the face, decided it wasn’t worth the time to argue about it, and shoved the coins into his hand.

“Away with you then assistant, you should already be at the barrow,” Farengar said waving her off again.

Sorelle rolled her eyes while she gathered up the tomes and the armor that had been gifted to her,

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she replied.

Farengar ignored her.

“Ugh. Some nerve,” she muttered as she strode out of the palace not looking back.

 

Halfway down the stairs from the palace she remembered that she had no idea who Arcadia was and mentally kicked herself, there was no way she was going to go back into the palace to ask Farengar, the pompous windbag. She could understand feeling a sense of pride over one’s accomplishment but when it got to the point of placing oneself on a pedestal to look down upon others, that’s where a hard, fast line should be drawn.

“Excuse me,” she said to a guard passing by, “do you know where I can find Arcadia?”

“In need of a potion? Arcadia runs a nice little shop in the market, called Arcadia’s Caldron,” he said pointing down the stairs towards the marketplace, “You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you,” Sorelle said and hurried down the steps towards the market.

“Don’t trip,” the guard called after her with a chuckle.

 

Arcadia’s shop was clean and warm. A large volume of alchemical ingredients were on display across her shelves: some common, some rare.

“Good evening, can I help you?” a middle-aged imperial woman asked from behind the counter, “You look like you might be in need of a potion or two, Ataxia was quite a problem back home in Cyrodiil.”

“Actually,” Sorelle started as she set down all the things she had been carrying around in a pile beside the counter before straightening, she produced the vial of frost salts from her pouch, “I was asked to deliver these by Farengar; he apologizes for his negligence,” Sorelle added even though the man had done no such thing.

“Oh the frost salts! Wonderful! I’ve been working on a new potion: a love potion like no other. Maybe I’ll test it on Farengar first...” she trailed off for a moment with a dreamy look in her eye, Sorelle cleared her throat,

“Oh! I’m sorry, you’ll want something for your trouble, here these should suffice as payment,” Arcadia said pulling out a few different potion bottles.

“Thank you,” Sorelle said putting them carefully in her pack, “I have a few that I mixed up myself yesterday that I was hoping you might be interested in trading as well,” she said pulling out the elixirs she had brewed in Riverwood.

“Oh you’re an alchemist!” Arcadia said in delight, “By all means, feel free to stop by to trade anytime;  you can borrow my workbench as well if you need it.” She looked over the bottles and sniffed at the contents of each vial, nodding her head or making noises of acceptance before counting out some septims and handing them to Sorelle.

“Do you have any extra ingredients you might want to sell while I’m here?” Sorelle asked, eyeing the Blisterwort on the counter.

“Sure do, take what you need and we’ll settle up afterward,” Arcadia said.

Sorelle nodded and then spent some time browsing the shelves, she came back with a pile of things to make health and magicka restoration potions, Arcadia raised an eyebrow at the selection,

“Farengar has me running off on an errand to a barrow in the mountains,” Sorelle explained.

“Is that so? Well, I’ll throw in these health potions for free then just to be safe,” Arcadia said grabbing several vials off the shelf behind her, “Make sure you keep an eye out for any exotic ingredients for me while you’re traveling though,” she added.

“That, I can do,” Sorelle said, paying Arcadia the few coins she requested and then carefully putting the ingredients into her pack.

“Come back soon!” the alchemist called cheerfully as Sorelle wrestled the steel armor out the door.

 

The marketplace was beginning to close up, people were flocking to the nearby inn, Sorelle followed suit. The Bannered Mare was a lively place, a fire roared in the fire pit, tables and benches were full of people eating, drinking and enjoying the bard’s performance. Sorelle took a seat at the bar,

“What can I get you dear?” an older woman behind the counter asked, “I think I have a clean mug around here somewhere...” she ducked down rummaged behind the counter, “Aha! Here we go,” placing a clean tankard on the counter, “Honningbrew Mead is a Whiterun specialty,” she suggested.

“Hulda! Another round!” a man cried from a table across the room

“Yes, just a moment,” the woman replied, “Saadia dear, could you help me here?”

“Right away ma’am,” a Redguard woman called, wiping her hands and hurrying over to Sorelle, “Sorry about that, what can I get you?” Saadia asked.

Sorelle ordered a tankard of wine and venison with grilled leeks before leaning back to watch the scene of revelry that was playing out at the inn. The bard clearly thought himself an attractive man, he flitted from woman to woman in between his performance. People danced and sang along with his songs, they cracked jokes and laughed with each other, overall they seemed like a happy crowd save the one redheaded woman in the corner nursing her tankard with a scowl.

“That’s Uthgerd,” Hulda said nodding to the redhead, “has a chip on her shoulder that one does,” she shook her head in disapproval before changing the subject, “is there anything else you need?”

“A room for the night if you have one available,” Sorelle said.

“I have one for ten gold,” Hulda nodded and accepted payment from Sorelle, “Let me show you to your room,” she said weaving her way through the patrons. Sorelle gathered up her belongings and followed her up the stairs to the inn’s second floor. The room was expensively outfitted with a green and gold embroidered coverlet on the bed and finely crafted drawers and tables: it was a world of difference from the room she’d rented in Riverwood.

“Just let me know if there’s anything else you need dear. Have a good night,” Hulda said leaving her at the door.

“Thanks, I will,” Sorelle replied before dropping her stuff on the floor and closing both the main doors and the doors leading out to a small private dining area overlooking the main room.

 

Candles were already burning on the various surfaces in the room so Sorelle settled on the floor to sort through her pack. She still had a few items that she had looted from dead bodies during the escape that could be sold, the tomes from Farengar and the Book of the Dragonborn that she’d found in the Helgen keep, a few lockpicks, carefully wrapped bread, cheese, and dried meat from Sigrid and Alvor, and the potions and ingredients from Arcadia’s shop. She made a mental note to get an alchemist’s satchel when she had a chance, it would help protect the ingredients she gathered. She reorganized everything and found a way to shove the steel armor into the knapsack before poking around the room for an inkwell and quill or perhaps some charcoal. There was nothing to be had, she’d have to buy paper and writing instruments later as well she thought with a sigh.

Finally, with everything in order for the first time in days, Sorelle shucked her clothes and settled into the bed to study her small stack of tomes. She was a novice mage at best but had always favored conjuration, it seemed to come to her effortlessly compared to other schools of the craft. It didn’t take long before she had gleaned all she could from the Bound Sword tome: the book itself disappeared. Sorelle contemplated for a moment whether the tomes were absorbed into one’s being when their knowledge was taken, or if perhaps they were absorbed into a plane of Oblivion, perhaps Hermaeus Mora’s realm in particular...

Not wanting to get too far lost in thought, she began to practice binding the sword just to makes sure she had a good handle on it, it felt much more natural to hold the ethereal blade than the steel one she’d been toting around for the last few days. A while she picked up the second tome, which took her a bit longer to wrap her head around but finally the book dissolved in a puff and Sorelle created a hovering ball of candlelight that followed her around the room. She crawled back into her bed again and settled back with the Book of the Dragonborn, which she fell asleep reading sometime later. Her slumber was full of fire and brimstone and not at all peaceful but still much needed.


	4. Dungeons and Draugr

4: Dungeons and Draugr

Farengar would pay dearly for this.

 

Sorelle sliced through another draugr with the  bound sword, her wolf familiar lept at the throat of a second one.

“Run and fetch, my ass!” she yelled as the third swung a heavy battle axe at her:  she only narrowly avoided it, “This stone better be the most important thing on the face of Nirn or I swear by all Nine and anyone else who wants to listen...” she hacked vigorously until the dragr fell at her feet.

The tomb was deathly still again as he let the sword slip back to Oblivion and she crouched down to loot the corpses. For whatever reason, several of the draugr carried gold coins in the rags that covered their bodies.

“You fight fiercely, surely even the arcane-shy nords would agree,” a voice called from behind her.

“And just where were you that whole time Faendal?” Sorelle demanded straightening as she shoved a few gems and gold coins into her satchel.

Faendal pointed to the the bow in one hand and then down the hall where one of the restless draugr lay splintered with arrows like a macabre pincushion.

“Fair enough,” Sorelle grunted pulling a piece of dried meat from her pack and shoving in her mouth.

“Do you keep the Green Pact?” she asked Faendal, offering him a piece, which he accepted,

“Yes, for the most part. Although, I’m not required to while living here in Skyrim,” he replied.

“Hmm I suppose that would make sense,” Sorelle said as she flexed her fingers, “We better keep moving, I’d like to get this over with,” she added as she summoned the wolf again and started moving down the passageway again.

“You know, I’m fairly certain that Arvel fellow wouldn’t have made it too far down here; even if my arrow hadn’t found him when he double crossed us,” Faendal said.

“You’re probably right,” Sorelle replied, summoning her sword as she recognized another draugr that wasn’t entirely dead. After spending hours bumbling around Bleak Falls Barrow she was starting to get the hang of figuring out which ones where only resting and which ones were actually dead.

The draugr awoke: Sorelle ran him through.

“You said the court wizard sent you on this mission?” Faendal asked.

“Initially, yes, but it seems that Lucan and Camilla needed someone to make a trip up here as well,” she patted the golden dragon claw in her satchel and gave Faendal a wink, “so it will work out for more than one person in the end. Farengar better be paying good for this job though, I’ll tell you that.”

Faendal chuckled as he nocked an arrow and let it fly into another draugr at the end of the hall, it was no secret that the elf harboured feelings for the lovely Camilla.

The two fought their way through the barrow until they came to an open room, ornately carved with a sealed door at the end of the chamber.

“Must be the Hall of Stories Arvel mentioned,” Sorelle mused as she pulled out her newly acquired journal and began walking around the room making various notes and sketches.

“Always the scholar,” Faendal mumbled, taking the opportunity to inspect his bow and sort the arrows he’d salvaged; this wasn’t the first time Sorelle had gotten distracted during their foray into the tomb. By the time he was finished with the arrows Sorelle had made her way to the sealed door and was in the process of taking charcoal rubbings of some of the symbols.

“Almost done,” she said jotting down the last of her remarks and snapping shut the book, she exchanged the book for the claw in her pack. Taking a quick look at the bottom of the claw she pushed the sigil panels until they reflected what she felt would be the correct orientation before inserting the claw and turning it. The sigil panels whirled around and the door depressed into the floor making it easy enough to just step over it.

“Wow. Would you look at that!” Faendal exclaimed as they stepped into the main chamber of the barrow.

“It’s beautiful,” Sorelle said taking in a sharp breath as she gazed about. Open to the stars at its zenith, the vast chamber housed an underground river encompassing a rock formation which was the resting place of an sarcophagus. A wall with elaborate relief carving and strange script, almost reminiscent of a grave marker, had been erected nearby.

“Farengar’s stone is probably up there somewhere, let’s go check it out,” Sorelle said leading the way over a narrow stone bridge and up the hewn stairs to the wall.

Suddenly she was distracted by the sound of chanting, wispy tendrils seemed to spring from the carvings and wrap themselves around her, pulling her in. Sorelle didn’t feel herself walking towards the wall only stopping in front of it, her vision darkened until all she saw was a brilliantly beautiful word. It was a foreign word, scratched into the stone rather than written, and yet she knew it, the word echoed inside her mind and etched itself upon her being and then it disappeared.

“What was that?!” Faendal cried, “It’s like you were in a trance.”

Sorelle didn’t have a chance to answer him, the sarcophagus behind them began to crack open. She summoned her familiar and sword ready for a fight, Faendal too drew his bow. The largest draugr she’d seen so far emerged from the coffin wielding a huge battle axe shimmering with a frost enchantment.

“EEEAYYYAAAAAHHH!” Sorelle yelled as she charged the draugr swinging her sword as hard as she could, the draugr took the hit and yelled back.

“Well, that’s unexpected,” called Faendal, he was firing arrows as quickly as he could.

“The time is quickly approaching when nothing will surprise me anymore,” Sorelle called back, “UGH! Why won’t you stay DEAD?!” she yelled as she summoned a second sword to her off hand. Using all her remaining energy, she drove both blades through the draugr’s chest halting it mid attack. The draugr fell in a heap, it’s unnatural life extinguished.

Sorelle dropped to the floor and pulled out a healing potion from her pack along with a bottle of mead.

“Celebrating?” Faendal asked, as he walked about retrieving arrows.

“Washing down the potion, but sure you could call it that,” she said, grimacing from the taste of the potion, she uncorked the mead bottle and took a swig before rifling through the draugr’s corpse.

“Ha! Now you can call it celebrating!” she said, holding the Dragonstone triumphantly over her head for Faendal to see.

“That’s it?” he said, “I thought it’d be a little more impressive.”

“Didn’t we all,” Sorelle said rummaging around in her pack for her charcoal and a roll of paper, she laid the paper across the Dragonstone and rubbed the charcoal across the paper until she had good representation.

“What are you doing?” Faendal asked.

“Making sure that Farengar doesn’t have the only copy in existence,” Sorelle replied, folding the paper up and tucking it into her journal before heading over to study the chanting-word-wall.

“Have you ever seen anything like this before?” Sorelle asked Faendal who had decided to open his own bottle of mead and was reclining against the sarcophagus.

Faendal shook his head,

“No, never, but then again I hunt game and work at the mill. I don’t make a habit of exploring ancient nord burial sites.”

“Point taken,” Sorelle said as she copied down each word on the wall, she circled the word that had pulled her, “I think these are words, this set of characters,” she pointed at the word she now understood, “is pronounced ‘fus’, I’m not entirely sure what that means yet but I’m certain that’s what it is.”

“How?” asked Faendal.

Sorelle tapped her chin thoughtfully, the charcoal still in hand,

“I’m not sure, but it pulled me in and I heard it. That’s what happened earlier before big, creepy and dead popped out of his box,” she gestured to the dead draugr.

Faendal chuckled and pulled himself up to start collecting items from the various treasure chests the draugr had been buried with, stuffing things unceremoniously into both of their packs, he’d let Sorelle sort it out later.

“What? You don’t believe me?” Sorelle asked pretending to be horribly wounded before resuming her scribbling.

“I believe you,” Faendal said, holding her pack out for her to take, Sorelle tucked her journal away and put the knapsack on again. Faendal grasped her shoulder before they started up the stairs at the back of the chamber and ran his thumb across her chin. He held his hand up for her to see with another chuckle. It was covered in charcoal.

“Oh... drat,” Sorelle said as she scrubbed her chin against her shoulder.

“Would be a fine way to greet a court wizard,” Faendal laughed.

“Don’t remind me. Ugh, that man!” Sorelle muttered, she wasn’t particularly looking forward to going back to Dragonsreach and dealing with Farengar again.

A quick release lever kicked off a mechanism somewhere that raised a concealed stone door leading out of the barrow and to a fabulous view of Lake Illinata,

“Looks like we’ve come out in Falkreath hold,” Faendal commented.

Sorelle turned to him with a horrified expression,

“Where?!” she cried.

“Don’t worry, Riverwood is right on the border of Whiterun, we’re not far at all,” he laughed.

“Oh thank goodness, I need a good night’s sleep” Sorelle said breathing a sigh of relief.

An hour later Sorelle and Faendal walked through Riverwood, sopping wet.

“I hope my notes aren’t ruined,” Sorelle muttered darkly.

“Your knapsack has been pretty well oiled, I would think the impact would be minimal,” Faendal offered.

They trailed into the Sleeping Giant Inn and Sorelle went straight to the counter and demanded a room from Orgnar.

“Delphine is out, inn is closed,” Orgnar said curtly.

“You’re kidding, where did she go?” Sorelle said in disbelief, this mission of Farengar’s just kept getting better and better all the time.

“Not my business, not yours either. You can lay your head on the counter if you want, I won’t bother you. Bar’s still open,” Orgnar offered.

Sorelle spun around on her heel: if she had to march to Whiterun tonight then she would personally drag Farengar out of his bed and sleep there herself! Faendal caught her sleeve and motioned across the room: Camilla and Lucan Valerius were having dinner and drinks. Sorelle looked around for Sven, who it turned out was Faendal’s rival for Camilla’s affection. Sven seemed to be giving Camilla a very wide berth. Sorelle smirked, the pompous bard had attempted to poison Camilla against Faendal by writing a venomous letter in his name and then sending her to deliver it: after that, things didn’t quite work out in his favor.

“Lucan, I have your stolen property,” Sorelle said striding over to the siblings, producing the golden dragon claw.

“You really did it! You have no idea how much this means to us! Here, I have some coin from my last shipment, it’s yours friend,” Lucan said pressing a fat coin purse into Sorelle’s hand.

“We’re so happy to have the claw back again,” Camilla echoed her brother’s sentiment, her gaze was resting on Faendal.

“Let me go fetch some more drinks,” Faendal said, catching Sorelle’s eye he tipped his head towards the bar.

“I’ll help you,” Sorelle offered, taking his cue and following him to the bar.

“Four tankards of mead please Orgnar,” Faendal ordered, he waited for Orgnar to turn his back before sliding a key across the counter to Sorelle,

“You can stay at my house tonight,” he said.

Sorelle raised an eyebrow,

“Where are you going to sleep? The floor... OHH.” realization dawned on Sorelle as Faendal tipped his head back towards the Valerius siblings, “Got it, I’ll be glad to take you up on that offer,” she said pocketing his house key.

“Great, I’ll see you in the morning then,” he said.

“You will?” Sorelle asked in surprise.

“If you don’t mind me tagging along, I’d like to see the famous Farengar Secret-Fire, bane of Sorelle Canne,” he laughed.

Orgnar had set the mead down on the counter and collected the coin from Faendal.

“Fine,” Sorelle said draining her tankard of mead as quickly as possible, “tomorrow then.”


	5. Watchtowers, Dragons, and Shouts: Oh My!

Sorelle straightened the furs that covered Faendal’s bed before helping herself to an apple from his well-stocked fruit bowl. Chewing thoughtfully, she spread out the map she’d purchased before leaving Whiterun. It was a sparse map, showing only the major roads and hold capitals. Sorelle noted down Bleak Falls Barrow for a reference point and went over the meager travel choices that would take her to the College of Winterhold before tucking the map back into her journal. After hesitating a moment she pulled the Dragonstone out of her pack, unwrapping it, she ran her fingers over the carvings. The markings themselves resembled a map, the reverse side was inscribed with runes: the same sort of runes from the wall inside the barrow. Even now the runes burned brightly in her mind’s eye. Sorelle squinted at the marks but none of the words called out this time, the whole experience had been very curious.

“Well, enough of that,” she grumbled aloud. She stuffed the stone into her pack and grabbed another apple. After banking the coals in the hearth, Sorelle locked the house up and wandered lazily down the lane to wait for Faendal on the inn’s front porch. Riverwood was silent as Sorelle leaned back against the wall. From her perch on the stairs she watched the sun slowly ascending, warming the river valley; it was a moment that felt both peaceful and heavy, like the calm before the storm.

“Didn’t think I’d see much of you around here again,” a voice full of contempt interrupted the silence, “What do you want Breton?”

“Ah, Sven. Good morning,” she greeted curtly in reply turning her head to eye the bard.

“You’re nothing but trouble,” he spat.

Sorelle wasn’t sure if she should argue the point with him or just punch the sour expression off his face. She was saved the trouble of deciding when Faendal and Camilla came into view, ambling down the lane arm in arm; Sven paled and retreated back into the Sleeping Giant.

“Here you are my friend, I was just showing Camilla one of my favorite hunting spots,” Faendal greeted Sorelle with a wide grin.

“Good morning to the both of you,” Sorelle greeted the couple with a smile and nod.

“I hear you and Faendal have business in Whiterun this morning,” Camilla said with a smirk and a raised eyebrow, “I’m sure between the two of you the Wizard of Whiterun won’t stand a chance.”

“We can only hope,” Faendal laughed good naturedly.

“Indeed…” Sorelle grumbled, rubbing her forehead; the prospect of speaking with Farengar Secret-Fire again was not a pleasant one.

“Well, let’s get a move on. I would like to be back in time for dinner,” Faendal said cheerfully, “and I’m sure Sorelle would like to get paid for our recent venture.”  

Sorelle stood, shouldering her pack and dusting off her tunic,

“Let’s just hope he doesn’t have any more errands that need to be run.”

It was Sorelle’s turn to smirk as Camilla embraced Faendal: the elf blushed all the way to the tips of his ears.

“Be safe you two; hurry home,” Camilla called after them as they crossed the old stone bridge on the road to Whiterun.

Faendal turned to wave one last time as they rounded the corner and Riverwood dropped out of sight.

 

Sorelle and Faendal traveled silently as the sun rose slowly in the sky. Silence and soft footsteps were second nature to Faendal while Sorelle was just flat out preoccupied. So much had happened in the last few days that she was still struggling to process it all. The glowing runes in the tomb were a complete mystery, but no stranger than a dragon showing up and burning an entire village out of existence. As the pair rounded another bend in the road Sorelle stumbled over one of the cobblestones, Faendal grabbed her arm to steady her,

“Hey, watch it! You’re going to get hurt,” Faendal exclaimed.

“Sorry. I… uh… I have a lot on my mind right now,” Sorelle apologized.

“Why don’t we take a break for a few minutes and eat something. Camilla packed us a bit of food and if Farengar is as difficult to deal with as you’ve made him out to be, I’d rather not face him with an empty stomach,” Faendal suggested plopping himself down unceremoniously against a tree trunk.

Sorelle took up a spot next to him and accepted the small bundle he offered.

“He’s not so much difficult as he is taxing on the nerves: you’ll see what I mean,” she said, tucking into the sliced pheasant and tart snowberry relish, “Mmmmm. Camilla is a good cook.”

Faendal nodded in agreement, his mouth full of pheasant. He cocked his head to the side inquisitively as he finished chewing and then asked,

“What is it that’s on your mind that you can’t watch where you’re going today? Checking out like that when you’re on the road is a good way to get killed.”

Sorelle let out a long sigh before answering,

“So many things... my mind feels so out of sorts I’m starting to having difficulties remembering why I came to Skyrim in the first place.”

“You seem to be quite the scholar,” Faendal said dryly, “I would wager a guess that it had something to do with the great pile of books they keep up at the College.”

Sorelle’s expression perked up,

“They really have that many books?” she asked with a sudden interest.

Faendal burst out laughing at her abrupt change in demeanor,

“I’m sure they have a large library, although I’ve never seen it. They don’t allow layfolk to enter the college these days. It’s probably enough to keep you occupied for the rest of the age though, as long as you can remember to eat at regular intervals.”

“Hey now!” Sorelle said pretending to be annoyed at Faendal’s ribbing, “Let’s just finish our food and get the rest of this over with!”

Faendal shoved the last of his meal into his mouth and stood with a large yawn and stretch,

“That is what you came here for though, isn’t it?” he said, unhooking his bow and checking the string, per his usual habit.

“The College? Yes,” Sorelle wolfed down the remainder of her food before rising,

Faendal nodded and turned again towards Whiterun. Sorelle occupied both her mind and the time with flitting back and forth gathering ingredients and shoving them in her pack: she’d make a visit to Arcadia’s shop after her business with Farengar was complete.

 

 

“You went into Bleak Falls Barrow and recovered the Dragonstone? Alive?” the woman asked skeptically as she eyed Sorelle.

Sorelle briefly contemplated asking Delphine what her game was as they stood in Farengar’s laboratory locked in discussion about the object in question. Delphine of Riverwood leaned forward with both hands spread out on one of Farengar’s workbenches with tomes and maps strewn about; she’d clearly been in some sort of strategic discussion with Farengar before Sorelle and Faendal entered the room.

Sorelle finally decided to ignore Delphine completely: if the woman was daft enough to pretend that they’d never met or to think that she couldn’t be recognized because she was wearing leather armor and a hood instead of a dress, then she wouldn’t interfere with her farce.

“What about my reward?” Sorelle asked turning to Farengar.

“You’ll have to ask the Jarl about that, it’s none of my concern,” Farengar waved her off dismissively.

Sorelle’s face turned scarlet with anger,

“Now you listen to me you pompous…” she was cut off abruptly by Irileth,

“Farengar, come quickly! A dragon is attacking the watchtower!” she barked, “You’d better come too, the Jarl may have further need of your... services,” she said appraising Sorelle for a moment before turning on her heel and swiftly making her way up the stairs to the interior places of Dragonsreach.

Sorelle turned to Faendal who shrugged,

“Guess we better go see what’s going on,” he suggested, halfway up the staircase he leaned over and whispered, “I see what you mean about Farengar… Wasn’t that… Delphine with him? The innkeeper? Our innkeeper?” he asked.

“Yeah... Your guess is as good as mine on that,” Sorelle whispered back.

They arrived in the Jarl’s war room where one of the guards was being debriefed by Balgruuf.

“...I didn’t think I’d make it back here alive,” he finished.

“Good man, go get some rest in the barracks: you’ve earned it,” Balgruuf said clasping the man’s shoulder, after the man left he turned to Irileth, “Take a detachment to the Western Watchtower at once, we need to know what we’re dealing with.”

“At once my Jarl,” Irileth said and with a gesture of respect, left to execute her lord’s command.

“I would like to go as well, it would be fascinating to study a specimen up close--” Farengar began but Balgruuf cut him off,

“No, you will stay here, I cannot risk losing the both of you.”

“As you say,” Farengar sniffed.

Farengar sulked back to his quarters as Jarl Balgruuf turned to Sorelle,

“Ah my friend, I’m afraid I must prevail once again upon your good graces, there’s no time for niceties. You survived Helgen: you have more experience with dragons than anyone. I need you at the watchtower with Irileth and the men; try to find some way to kill these beasts. At least find out if killing them is even a possibility,” he said seriously. Sorelle opened her mouth to protest, being nearly roasted by a dragon didn’t constitute experience in her mind but the Jarl continued talking before she could cut in,

“Please don’t think that I’ve forgotten all you’ve done for my hold so far either my friend, these are hectic times but I’ve instructed Avenicci that you are allowed to purchase property in the city, and I also have a gift for you from my armory,” he said producing an enchanted hide shield from beneath the strategy table.

“Thank you,” Sorelle began but before she could protest Balgruuf shooed her down the stairs,

“Hurry to the watchtower now,” he urged.

Sorelle hurried down the stairs and out the palace doors with Faendal in tow. She let out a long sigh as the great doors closed behind her.

Faendal let out a low whistle,

“So… all those draugr and bandits and all you got was a cheap shield, the right to pay them for a place to hang it up, and a mission to hunt down a dragon terrorizing the hold?”

“That’s about the size of it,” Sorelle replied examining the shield’s enchantments, “I might be able to get a few coins out of this at Warmaiden’s,” she muttered.

“Well let’s go find this dragon: it will be interesting,” Faendal said with a twinge of excitement in his voice.

“No,” Sorelle replied flatly as she marched down the palace steps.

“What you you mean ‘No’? The Jarl sent you on a mission, you can’t refuse,” Faendal said.

“I can, and I will. Balgruuf has no idea what he’s asking. I narrowly escaped with my life the last time, by sheer chance I might add: I won’t tempt fate again,” Sorelle said without pausing her trek down the stairs.

“It sounds like a magnificent hunt--” Faendal began, Sorelle rounded on him abruptly,

“You have no idea what you’re talking about! None of you do! Dragons are bigger than you imagine. They breathe fire and death Faendal. They destroy everything in their path: children, adults, buildings: flesh, stone, wood, it makes little difference. I saw a man incinerated right before his little boy’s eyes: the entire village of Helgen was reduced to rubble in a matter of hours! It’s a suicide mission!” Sorelle snapped stomping the rest of the way down to the park.

At the base of the stairs Faendal spoke again, quietly this time,

“There are children here too you know, you’ve seen them running the streets,”

Sorelle froze at his words, the images of Hamming and his father replaying across her vision,

“Faendal,” she warned hoarsely,

“You don’t want that to happen here as well do you?” he ignored her.

Suddenly the image of Hamming was replaced with the little girl whose mother ran the fruit stand in the marketplace: the girl wailed as the dragon reduced her mother to cinders. She reached out and grasped Faendal’s arm tightly as a little girl in a green dress ran across the park: she felt faint. There was no way she could let Helgen happen again but she had no desire to face one of the beasts head on either: it was a no-win situation.

Faendal took Sorelle’s elbow and led her to a bench, and waited until the glazed look in her golden eyes dissipated before speaking again,

“Will you help? The Jarl’s right, you do have more knowledge of them than anyone else here,” he asked.

Sorelle gazed at the little girl sitting on the bench across the park and then back to Faendal. She felt helpless, like she was being led to the executioner’s block again only this time she was bound not by leather thongs but by her own conscience.

“Yes,” she agreed finally, returning her gaze to the little girl who was now chatting amicably with her friends.

Sorelle rose and went directly to Arcadia’s shop. She purchased several healing potions and left her stock of ingredients on the counter, telling Arcadia she’d settle accounts with her upon her return. Pausing at Warmaiden’s beside the gate, she dropped off every item in her pack that wasn’t a vial,

“If I don’t come back, just keep the lot,” Sorelle told Adrianne, the smith, before hurrying out the front gates.

Faendal jogged alongside Sorelle as they headed down the road. She froze abruptly when the watchtower came into view. The building was a smoking, desecrated, ruin: the dragon had already attacked.

Sorelle’s chest tightened, a scream bubbled up from within but couldn’t make it’s escape. Instead she turned to run but Faendal caught her, he grasped her by the shoulders and shook her,

“Stop!” he exclaimed

Sorelle forced herself to focus on Faendal’s face, his lips were moving but she couldn’t hear his words,

“Sorelle, listen to me! You have to get it together!” he yelled.

Sorelle struggled to focus on his words, they seemed faint and far away,

“There are people out here that the Jarl sent, they don’t know what to do. You need to tell them how to survive this!” Faendal shook her again hard. It registered what Faendal expected her to do: help them, direct them, anything.

Sorelle nodded weakly and allowed herself to be tugged toward the the watchtower once again. It seemed like she was running through some sort of dream, everything moved in slow motion, the world was hazy and surreal.

Irileth and the Jarl’s men were already combing the area for survivors and any sign of the dragon. Faendal and Sorelle stopped at the base of the watchtower proper where they were met by one of the guards,

“No get back! Hroki and Tor just got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it,” he yelled, “Kynareth save us, here he comes again!”

The ferocious roar of the dragon snapped Sorelle out of her stupor,

“Take cover! Stay out of the fire!” she yelled as she summoned her wolf familiar. The great dragon flew low burning everything in its sight. Faendal and the guards loosed arrows at it. The dragon turned again and made another pass, one of the guards didn’t notice that the dragon was now behind him, the dragon opened his mouth to shout fire once again. Sorelle sprinted to the guard and shoved him out of the path of flame at the last moment catching the brunt of the attack herself. Amidst the flames she felt as if something unlocked deep within; she rolled to the side before righting herself and snatching the guard’s bow and quiver out of his hands with a feral roar. Archery had never been one of her strong suits but now she loosed arrow after arrow at the beast as if she were intent on settling a personal vendetta.

Screaming, the dragon turned sharply and skidded across the ground as it lost the ability of flight against the multitude of arrows. Sorelle threw the bow aside and called an ethereal sword to each hand as she raced her familiar to the fallen beast; both launching themselves at it without a second thought.

“You are brave. Bahlaan hokoron. Your defeat brings me honor,” the dragon growled challengingly as he flung his head to the side and snapped one of the guards in half.

“It’s you who will bring me honor,” Sorelle growled in return as she barely dodged the snap of the dragon’s maw. In the opening created she hacked ruthlessly at his scales. The dragon thrashed and snapped again, this time Sorelle wasn’t so lucky and his teeth tore into her side. With a surge of adrenaline she released her swords, grabbed a ridge on the dragon’s snout and leapt on to his head; he tried in vain to throw her off. Sorelle conjured both swords again and summoned every ounce of strength remaining in her body,

“Dovakiin! Nooooooooo!” the dragon cried just as she drove both swords into his skull.

Sorelle slid off of the dragon and fumbled around her pack for a healing potion only to discover that they had been crushed in the fight. She tapped into what was left of her magicka reserves and used a weak healing spell: it was only enough to slow the bleeding.

The adrenaline rush wore off and she slumped forward, leaning against the dragon’s corpse for support. Suddenly the dragon was alight, burning with a flamed that consumed but did not burn: Sorelle stumbled back in surprise. A white hot light swirled around and enveloped her like a visible windstorm. Time seemed to both stop and flow incredibly fast all at once: thousands of years of knowledge and memories flew through her mind with very little comprehension save one single word,

“FUS!” she roared as she came back to herself. Then she understood: the word in the barrow, it’s meaning was alive, tangible, it held power.

She dropped to the ground and dumped the contents of her satchel out, searching for her journal, charcoal, paper: anything that would allow her to make sense out of all the things flying through her head.

“I don’t believe it!” a voice behind her exclaimed she turned to see one of the guards, “You’re Dragonborn! From the old legends, one who possesses the soul of a dragon. A dragonborn can steal a dragon’s very soul. That’s what you did there, you stole his soul. There hasn’t been a dragonborn since old Tiber Septim himself,” the guard said in awe.

“I don’t believe it,” another guard said.

“What do you think Irileth?” a third guard asked.

Sorelle was annoyed,

“Faendal! Where is my charcoal?!” she yelled over the discussion, completely ignoring the entire group that had gathered.

The group paused discussion and stared at Sorelle who was quite the spectacle: burnt and bloody armor, hair singed beyond salvation, crouched next to a dragon skeleton, picking through a pile of smashed potion vials with a feral expression.

“You’d best return to Whiterun and let the Jarl know what happened,” Irileth said to her.

Sorelle creased her brow but nodded and waved her hand dismissively, she rose and scanned the tundra for Faendal: he was limping his way slowly across the plains from the opposite side of the watchtower. Sorelle jammed a few loose scales and bones from the dragon into her pack for study later and set out to meet Faendal,

“Well that was quite the experience,” he grimaced when they met halfway.

“Do you have my journal and charcoal?” Sorelle demanded.

Faendal burst into laughter, then he stopped,

“Wait...you’re serious? No, I don’t have it.”

Sorelle felt a growl rise in her throat that didn't feel or sound human in nature,

“You’re hurt,” she noted.

“So are you,” Faendal pointed at the puncture wounds on her ribcage where blood continued to seep slowly.

“Come on,” Sorelle growled, as she put an arm around Faendal’s waist to help support him, “I’ve heard that there’s a healer at the Temple of Kynareth.”

Together they limped slowly back to Whiterun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for taking so long to update: life got in the way :-\ I will make a valiant effort to update in a more regular fashion going forward.
> 
> a/n 12/12/13: Updated chapter to fix a few grammatical errors that were overlooked during previous edit sessions


End file.
